Time Wears On
by Dorano1
Summary: As time wears on, he does not.
1. Time Wears On

**Author's Note:** For some reason, I just can't write for my long-term stories, but I'm cranking out one-shots like nobody's business.

* * *

 **Time Wears On**

He used to visit the graves once a year.

But as time wore on, he would find himself several countries away and promise to go next year. So he started going every two.

As time wore on, he started going every five.

Then, as time wore on, he visited the graves every ten.

* * *

He's a legend that nobody knows and he prefers it that way. His face hasn't changed, but his eyes and dark and heavy and sad with the weight of years upon them.

When they ask his name, he used to say _Arratay._ But that name became old and worn, bringing up memories of Alyss's dry wit, Will's bright smile...of Pauline's gentle teasing.

He went through a cycle while he tried to decide. Resez, Tahl, he even considered borrowing Crowley's name.

Now when the ask his name, he says Graybeard.

* * *

He is the oldest being alive, as far as he knows, and he knows a lot. Even that Skandian vampire is a few decades younger than he is.

But when your life spans a thousand years or more, what's a few decades here and there? The only difference was that the Skandian was frozen in his twenties.

They both share a laugh when the historians place their first gravestones in different centuries.

He imagines what Will might think.

* * *

Will might not recognize him now.

The face is the same, but the beard has gone in an effort to blend in, and the hair is shorter.

His bow, arrows, and knives have been replaced by guns, bullets, and electronic gadgets.

The tools have changed beyond recognition. So has he. The job remains the same.

* * *

He waits. He watches. He protects.

He chuckles to himself when the new country's special forces call themselves _Rangers_ and think they're so clever for thinking up the name.

The Skandian roams freely, a restless spirit bound only by the light of the sun.

He has no such restrictions, but he stays at home. Watching. Protecting.

* * *

Redmont Fief, Redman County - the name doesn't matter to him. It is home.

It is the cool forest glades and the wooden towns and the great redstone castle.

It is the crumbling fortress and the bustling city and the farmland he used to ride through with trees thick above his head.

No matter what, it is always _home._

* * *

As time wears on, the names on the gravestones begin to fade.

Duncan, Arald, Rodney, Jenny, Alyss, Crowley, Gilan, Cassandra, Horace, Will, Pauline.

He touches the golden oakleaf around his throat.

One day he will join them in the earth. But it seems that day will not come. Not for a long time.

* * *

As time wears on, he does not.

A familiar nudge on his shoulder, a soft, insistent nicker.

Absently, he gives the little pony an apple. The pony crunches blissfully.

He scratches the little pony on the forehead, just between the eyes.

* * *

"Looks like it's just you and me, old boy," Halt says softly, staring out at the industrialized expanse.

Abelard rests his head on Halt's shoulder.

The automobile has rendered the horse nearly obsolete, but Halt would never abandon Abelard.

His last companion, his faithful friend through the long years and longer centuries as he waits for the sky to burn and the ground to freeze and the world to end so he can see them again.

* * *

He clutches his gold oakleaf.

He can hardly wait to tell them all about it.


	2. Sand in the Hourglass

**Author's Note:** Originally, I was just going to leave this be. Less is more, and all that. But then I decided that the Skandian vampire deserved some expansion.

* * *

 **Sand in the Hourglass**

There are no graves for him to visit, so he visits another grave instead.

As the sand in the hourglass keeps falling, the _Heron_ crumbles to dust, but he keeps coming back anyway, because if their ghosts are anywhere, they're here.

His fingers brush gently against the wooden figurehead, lost in memories of salt and sea and wind and sky.

One day, he promises himself, she will sail again. Not only sail, she will _fly_ , as she was born to.

* * *

To some he's a bloodthirsty monster.

To some he's a mysterious shadow.

To some he's an alluring stranger.

All three options let him feed, so he doesn't care much. He tried to limit the murders, though. For Hal's sake.

* * *

He could be the oldest being alive if not for the Ranger, but he doesn't care. Second place is a safer place, he's learned.

People know you and they fear you, but there's always a bigger fish to worry about.

Nobody pays attention to silver, unless they're hunting werewolves. And nobody cares about the bullets, only the shooter.

He's learned a lot in a thousand years.

* * *

He knows his age to the day.

One thousand sixty-five years, four months, three weeks, and two days.

And yet, as old as he is, and as much as he knows, there is so much left to discover.

Immortality would have been Hal's dream. But he's not exactly unhappy with it either.

* * *

The world has changed so much since before he turned.

Massive ships roll across the waves at speeds the _Heron_ could only have dreamed of, regardless of the direction of the wind.

And yet, they are made of cold iron. They do not hum, nor sing, nor fly. They are old blind boars that have replaced graceful falcons.

So much of Hal's work is obvious in the world. Weaponry mounted on ships. Spectacles ( _glasses_ now) are everywhere. Even his land-sail seems to have evolved into the car.

* * *

He has been everywhere a ten times over, and every time it's different.

He does not book passage on on the cold iron ships, nor on the airplanes that soar like birds but are no more alive than the massive liners.

The smaller airplanes give him hope, however. The fighters, the bombers, they have _character,_ they have _energy._

How ironic. The deadliest machines are the ones with the most life to them.

* * *

War has changed the most.

It used to be a glorious thing, a thing of honor and fairness, a contest between equal foes, of wits as well as steel.

Now it is bloody and gray and red and black. Now is ambushes, traps, anything to kill the other man - and whatever civilians lie in between.

There used to be honor in war, before gunpowder came along.

* * *

He avoids the sun at all costs. He's felt its rays before, and his arms still bear the blackened scars to prove it. Sunlight is not kind to vampires.

He misses Stefan's company. He misses having another brother of the night by his side.

But even a vampire is not invincible, and righteous churchmen are the most dangerous foe.

In his nightmares, he sometimes hears him screaming as the sunlight and flames burn him to ash. And he could do nothing, save watch, or burn with him.

* * *

He drops to his knees in the sand of this long-forgotten cove, kept off maps by blood and steel, by coin and favors.

Long, pale fingers sift through the fine white grains until he finds what he is looking for.

A wooden plank, slightly curved. It belongs to the _Heron,_ and once it was part of her hull. Now, it is a memorial.

 _Thorn. Hal. Stig. Lydia. Ingvar. Wulf. Ulf. Jesper. Stefan._

* * *

His name is not yet carved into the _Heron's_ bones.

One day, when the _Heron_ is restored and sails again, Edvin will carve his name into her, as he has done for the others.

Then, he expects he will step out into the noonday sun and let the Valkyries see him at last.

Battle cannot kill a vampire. But sun can.

* * *

The sand in the hourglass had run out for his brothers. His hourglass seems to have no end in sight.

Not until the Church has burned, for Stefan, his last and closest brother.

Not until Magyara falls, for Thorn, the first to die.

Not until the _Heron_ sails again, for them all.


End file.
